


the only time aziraphale tried to cook

by fishydwarrows



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Character Study, M/M, One Shot, Short One Shot, aziraphale cooks badly, crowley loves his bastard husband, post armegeddon't, they're on a date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 07:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: aziraphale has two very conflicting traits: food snob, and kitchen disaster
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	the only time aziraphale tried to cook

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is my first good omens fic and also this was a prompt in my creative writing class so UH have fun reading it lmao let's hope i get a good grade after i change the names and turn it in

Technically, Aziraphale didn’t need to eat.

This was, of course, because he was an angel of divine light and intangible substance who could live indefinitely and inspired grace and understanding in those of the human race who happened across his path. But that didn’t mean he didn’t like to do it anyway. Picture in your head the snobbiest chef on Chopped: they’ve come to judge the food and are meticulous in their scrutiny of the dish down to its smallest components. Now picture that snobby chef, but they’re six thousand years old, have the most refined palette known to man, and are the most passive-aggressively nice person you’ve ever met: that’s Aziraphale.

Aziraphale liked to dine out. Sometimes, he’d miraculously find some hole in the wall restaurant in Paris, sequestered away, cramped, with murals on the walls and very unstable chairs, yet with some of the best tartiflette north of Lyon. Or perhaps he’d find a food truck in New Mexico, serving fresh tacos, the meat carved straight from the haunch, rich and juicy. Finding delicious food was a skill Aziraphale had cultivated over his many millennia’s on Earth and he took pride in it. But, woe to any who overcooked his food, or God forbid, got his order wrong.

Just such a thing happened just the other day. Aziraphale had joined Crowley – his part-time best friend, part-time enemy, and full-time lover – on a date to The Ritz in what had become a weekly ritual of wining and dining and fond looks across the dinner table. Aziraphale had ordered the hay aged bresse duck and a bottle of Louis Roederer, Cristal Rosé (2008) for the table. This was all for himself since Crowley, a fellow being of intangible substance – but not divine light – didn’t need to eat and didn’t like to anyway.

Too much chewing, he said.

As the two waited for their meal – or more accurately, Aziraphale’s meal and Crowley’s drink – they chatted about all kinds of very sophisticated things: “One thing I regret, the- the one thing I regret about falling is- is that I never got to ask God what the Hell was up with the platypus.” Crowley said, miming the shape of the aforementioned creature.

“I mean, why eggs if it’s a mammal? And the beak _and _tail?”

“They’re strange creatures that’s true.” Aziraphale nodded, “but I don’t see the need to insult them so.”

“Why not? They deserve a little insulting. The only positive representation of a platypus I’ve ever seen has been – what’s his name – that blue one from that Disney cartoon.”

“Still, my dear, that’s hardly fair when one can’t be here to defend itself.”

“Oh please, angel, you know that – ah,” Crowley tapped Aziraphale’s shoulder and pointed.

“Crowley, that’s rude.”

“Food’s out.”

“Oh! Lovely,” smiled Aziraphale, which promptly dropped when he saw the contents of his plate.

A beef wellington with celeriac and perigord truffle sat mouth wateringly in the center of the dish.

Delicious?

Undoubtedly.

What he had ordered?

Absolutely not.

Aziraphale looked up from his plate and smiled at the waiter.

The waiter began to sweat.

“What is this?” Asked Aziraphale, his smile decidedly not reaching his eyes.

“The beef wellington, sir.” Aziraphale made an “mhmm” noise and poked at the food.

“That it certainly is.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“However, my good sir, this is _not_ what I ordered. In fact, it is nowhere close.” The waiter picked up the plate and grimaced.

“Terribly sorry, sir.”

“Well, it was a good effort,” said Aziraphale, voice dry, “Don’t let it happen again.” The waiter than walked away, making a very valiant effort not to run in the process.

“Angel, I don’t see why you couldn’t have just miracled the actual food here,” said Crowley, he swirled his Rosé and watched the small bubbles rise.

“It’s the principle of the thing!” Aziraphale huffed.

“It’s a restaurant, I’m supposed to receive the food I _order._”

“True, true. But I’d like to see you try making something like a beef wellington—only for it to be turned away.” Crowley sipped his Rosé pointedly. Aziraphale harrumphed.

“Perhaps I shall try!”

“Perhaps.”

That exchange led to today: the day Aziraphale decided to cook for the first time.

He had prepped everything at Crowley’s – his bookshop did not have a kitchen, yet Crowley did for unnamed purposes considering, as mentioned before, Crowley did not eat – and had gathered all the ingredients. Near the floured counter sat a tenderloin, some prosciutto, many mushrooms, and a variety of knives and other implements such as salt and pepper and olive oil for seasoning.

Aziraphale stared at his ingredients and stared and stared.

Logically, he knew where to start, but Aziraphale was not entirely a being of logic, in fact, some days he was a being of immense intelligence and wisdom, today was not one of those days. He considered miracling the whole beef wellington into existence, piping hot and delicious, but then again that would be cheating, and Aziraphale was determined to make his life harder by going about it the practical way. He shed his coat delicately, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

What then ensued was what can only be described as a cooking montage – much like Claire Saffitz from Bon Appetit Test Kitchen’s attempts at making gourmet Kit Kats (a disaster)– there were groans of frustration and many shouts of “bother!” and “oh darn!”

Two hours later Crowley found Aziraphale sitting on the floor, woefully eating the most misshapen and blackened beef wellington he’d ever seen.

“I don’t understand!” Aziraphale cried, mournfully looking at the definitely not food shaped substance on his fork.

“I followed every instruction, I tasted at every step! Yet- yet- when I finish it looks like something, something you’d find at the bottom of a fire pit on an archeological site!”

“And the taste?”

“It tastes _awful!_”

Crowley laughed.

“Serves you right, angel, you’ve never cooked a day in your life.”

Aziraphale pushed himself up and looked sadly at the Not beef wellington.

“I thought maybe it’d…just come to me and suddenly I would have the skill to make something good.”

“Ah well, practice makes…something, I’m sure if you did this again instead of an inedible brick, you’d make an edible one.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“I am not doing this again, thank you very much.”

Crowley kissed him on the cheek.

“Suit yourself. _I’m _going out for lunch – come along?”

Aziraphale gave one last sad look to the blackened monstrosity on his plate.

He nodded and it disappeared.

Crowley took his arm and led him out of the apartment and began to speak: “I’m thinking curry…”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! the art is by me and please leave a comment if you enjoyed! 
> 
> my twitter: @wow__then  
my insta: @fishydwarrows  
my tumblr: @fishfingersandscarves


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